Testing

  Testing

  Being book one of

  En’shen

  By

  S. A. Maus

  Copyright © 2019 Seth Maus

  Map Copyright © 2019 Seth Maus

  All rights reserved.

  First Edition

  ISBN: 9781708721190

  This book is dedicated to my wife, Katherine, who has pushed me back into a world I love despite my many days of procrastination. To Cliff, who offered feedback and insight into the text. Here’s to another long journey.

  Contents

  1 A Light in the Darkness

  2 A Test of Will

  3 En’shen

  4 An Early Summons

  5 A Hunt Abroad

  6 The Weight of Duty

  7 A Strange Visit

  8 Unnatural

  9 The First Contract

  X Malphic Compendium

  Chapter I

  A Light in the Darkness

  Hidden away in a dark storeroom shoved up against the western peak of the mountains, Omer waited on bent knee, facing into the utter dark, waiting for his Trial to begin. Across from him, concealed by the gloom, five Masters of Shalim stood in line. Master Azod, the administering Master for the Trial of Fires, stood in front. Beside him were many powders and herbs which Omer could not see, though he knew Azod could see them as clearly as the noonday sun. He could feel all the eyes of the Masters upon him, despite the gloom, eyes that saw without hindrance. Omer only hoped they did not perceive his shaking hands.

  “Are you ready to begin?” Azod asked.

  Omer inhaled deeply and pressed his arms into his sides, willing his limbs to be still, though his mind continued to threaten to wander away and betray him. Many had knelt in that very spot. Many had failed the same. The first two Trials of Testing were elementary, being nothing more than quizzes on the mundane and the magical. Difficult, certainly, but nothing a clever child could not pass with enough time and enough dedication. It was here, the Fires, where a Hunters test truly began. Omer knew he was prepared, he only wished his body would agree.

  “I am, Master,” Omer said, hoping his voice did not sound as shaky as it felt.

  A flash of light split the dark of the room. Brilliant. White. For a brief moment, Omer could see everything: the stone walls, the gilded tapestries, the red rug at his feet; and behind it all, standing in unison at the far end of the room, the Masters of Shalim. Then it was gone, leaving a sharp sting and the urge to rub at his eyes.

  “Brightpowder,” Omer said quickly. It was perhaps the most common Fire used by the Hunters, a blinding agent useful against all manner of creatures. He wiped at his watering eyes and waited for a response.

  “Correct,” Azod answered from the dark. “Next.”

  Another light erupted, this one red and harsh, hot as a scalding iron. The chamber was, for the briefest instant, awash in the color of flames, every sword and staff on the wall rimmed by false fire. The darkness returned and a smell like snuffed candles lingered in its wake.

  “Firestone,” Omer said, “a small pinch, perhaps diluted.” He winced, realizing that Azod had not truly tested him yet. Firestone was not often used in the wild but it was trained with extensively in Shalim, not least for how dangerous it was if carelessly used. Certainly, this was the calm before the storm.

  “Of course, we are not trying to kill you,” Azod answered. “Next.”

  White light flashed once more, this time muted and trailing in silvery wisps that bled out and dissipated in all directions. A sound like hissing steam shrieked alongside it and then disappeared.

  “Shadelock,” Omer said firmly. He recognized the trailing lights, the Mistbound essence that linked the ingredient Underleaf to the world beyond the veil. It was a less common Fire but Omer had long taken an interest in dealing with Malphic, the monsters of the world, and Shadelock was essential for managing the more dangerous spirits.

  “What is its scientific name?” Azod asked.

  Omer grimaced. While there were no true rules for the Trials, it was not, as far as he knew, part of the Fires to know the Romedun names. At least, none of the other Tested had mentioned it during his hounding questions. He thought a long moment, delving back to the archaic lectures Master Gill had delivered over the years “Sphireloc?” he said at length, knitting his brow and hoping that his guess had found its mark. A guess was not technically allowed during the Testing; you either knew or you did not, and a guess was a sign you did not, but the question had also been beyond the usual bounds of the Trial. Languages were supposed to be contained in the Trial of Mind, and Omer had already passed that, if only just.

  Silence lingered for a moment that felt far too long to Omer. His hands began to shake again. This time he could not stop them.

  “Correct,” the answer came at last. Omer sighed. Whether the Masters had heard the hesitation in his voice or not he would likely never know, but they had accepted his answer. “Next.”

  Omer inhaled, holding his breath, hoping that the last examination would not be one of the more obscure Fires. There was rumor that Azod liked to delve into the Pre-Magi lore for some of his checks, lore Omer had found numbingly difficult to process, it being almost all in the language of the Romedun. His heart sank, however, when an all too familiar emerald fire filled the air. Green flame was not obscure, it was frustratingly common in alchemy, which was likely why Azod chose it. In the wild, knowing the difference between a green flame that mends vegetation and a green flame that scalds flesh and bone might be the thread that keeps a Hunter among the living.

  Omer exhaled, letting his chest empty, and inhaled once more, this time drawing the dissipated smoke into his lungs. It was light and crisp, with an acrid edge that stung his throat. It was a Fire designed for offense, he could taste the poisonous undertone, but that only narrowed it down to forty-odd concoctions. He needed more information. Omer stuck out his tongue, thankful for the dark of the room that no doubt hid smiles among the Masters. The smoke was bitter and harsh, difficult to separate, but he felt confident there was Tillfoil herb lingering beneath it; he could taste the salty herb at the front of his tongue. That was much more telling.

  “Icarus Bane,” Omer answered.

  “Correct,” the answer came immediately, but Omer knew that would not be the end. Three years prior, his best friend Gaul had taken his own Testing, and while it was frowned upon to divulge the secrets of the Trials, Gaul had been willing to speak of some of the trickier aspects. The last Fire would have a follow-up, and it came swiftly.

  “What is it used for?” Azod demanded.

  Omer smiled. While alchemy was not his strength, being more inclined to the martial combats and the tracking arts, the crossover between the Fires and their use on the Malphic was well known to him. “It is a counter to the Ekulit and other creatures of virulent poisons. Icarus Bane bonds with most poisons to create fire, burning the creature from the inside.”

  “And its effects on non-poisonous creatures?” Azod asked.

  “A bitter cold. Prolonged exposure will afflict frostbite, though it would require a very large amount to produce such an effect,” Omer answered.

  Silence met him. He was sure in his response but there was still a flutter in his stomach, a nervous voice whispering he had made a mistake. He strained his ears, searching the dark for anything which might suggest his outcome.

  A light appeared suddenly before Omer, a freshly lit candle that seemed unduly harsh breaking out of the black. Behind the light was a familiar face wearing a long gray beard and deep scars over its brow; the face of Master Azod, and he was smiling. “You have passed through the Fire, Omer. Your Trial is complete.”

  Five more lights appeared, these lined along the wall and each attached to a torch with a Master holding it. The Mas
ters Iphilia, Vaeln, Zekhain, and Taillus, each a presider over their own Trial and judge in the Trials of each other, were present and pleased, a smile on each of their lips.

  “You do honor to your station, Omer,’ Master Iphilia said. “Few are the novices who pass the Fires in these late days.”

  “He had a fantastic mentor,” Master Zekhain said as he stepped out of the line of Masters. He was short and stocky, as most Lethermen were, and the shadows of the lights danced oddly about his blocky features, cutting harshly across his stone-like face. Omer had mistaken him for a statue the first time he saw Zekhain amidst the gardens of Shalim, only to be embarrassed when the statue looked up and waved at him. Zekhain’s limbs creaked as he walked, like gears being turned slowly, and when he smiled Omer could swear he heard a sound like cracking earth. “Ivim’s blood runs strong in these veins. Good clanblood, but better teaching, if I might say,” he tapped Omer’s shoulder and winked.

  “Huemen do not divide by clans,” Master Iphilia said from behind him. Even in the dark Omer knew where she was. She was an Aeilman, tall and thin, with sharp features covered by a lofty hood, and her torch was at least a foot higher than the others. He could not see it in the dark, but Omer knew she was wearing her own smile, set on the proud, high brow common to her people; it was a face that had looked down with scorn upon him in many a history lesson. “I have told you this many times,” she continued. “Nations are not clans.”

  Zekhain sighed and shrugged his square shoulders. “Colloquial! I’m allowed my jabs,” he said. Iphilia huffed but said no more. Zekhain slapped his shoulder and there was a sound like stone being rapped. He winked. “We should not be debating language. Omer is passing with aplomb! Truly his teacher’s student. My Trial will see him pressed though. No easy questions for you now, lad.”

  “He is the first Hunter to pass the Fire in two years,” Azod said with a disapproving frown. “Half the novices remain Untested because they cannot pass the Trials. I do not think my work is easy.”

  “It was a joke,” Zekhain sighed. “You are too serious, Azod. But come, Omer, it is not over yet. Are you ready for the Trial of Blades? I’ll not deny you a rest, if you would like. My tests are not easy and I have chosen a special one for my favorite troublemaker. Azod might let you skip the Wills if you manage this one.” Azod turned around and was about to speak, but Zekhain threw up his hands high over his head. “Joking!” he declared.

  Omer laughed but shook his head. “I do not want to wait,” he said. “Twenty years preparing. Not a day more.”

  Zekhain snorted and slapped him on the back. “An answer worthy of an En’shen! Come on then. Tahr is in the yard.”

  “Tahr?” Omer said. His smile quickly fell to a frown.

  Azod went to the door of the chamber then and thrust it outward. Brilliant daylight flooded through, illuminating the mostly empty room and the large box that waited just beside the door, now barren of the ingredients for the Fires. The doorway opened onto the western courtyard of Shalim, a huge square of earth bordered by shaped stone and iron, divided into four separate sections. The northwest section was populated with training dummies for novice Hunters to practice sword work on, the northeast section was a course of stones and high walls that were used for endurance training, and the southern two sections were empty and made of bare dirt, being the area Masters used to train students in martial arts. Between them all and dividing them into four was a cross-cut road of stone, raised slightly from the yards and centering in a high platform which was often used to shout instruction from.

  Beyond the courtyard, rising high and daunting in the glow of midday, was the fortress of Shalim. The central part of the fortress was a great dome that stretched out and covered the northern edge of the plateau, running right up to the very peaks of earth that surrounded it. It was gilded in stone and marble shaped like stars and rolling clouds, and at its roof was gray and smooth. About the dome the Wings of Shalim splayed out in a half-moon, running each up the mountain walls, where they ended. Within the Wings, all manner of training and war and learning were set about by Hunter and novice alike.

  Omer took a deep breath when he saw the single figure standing in the center of the courtyard atop the stone dais: Tahr of the Deserts. He was the tallest Hueman Omer had ever known, rivaling even the Aeil and being at least seven feet; but where the Aeil were often thin and frail, Tahr was a mountain of muscle and flesh, bound by onyx skin that seemed a shadow of its own, grown deeper in the afternoon sun that hung high against his back. Tahr was legendary for his strength, even among the Hunters. Rumors said that he once held an entire house up by himself while it crumbled to allow a family time to flee, though Tahr himself would never confirm if it was true or not.

  “Ho, we doing this?” Tahr called out when he saw them, hefting his greatsword from where it rested against the stone. It landed on his leather-bound shoulderguard and Omer grimaced. He doubted he even had the strength to lift that blade, but Tahr seemed not even to feel it.

  “Ai, ai, hold the cattle, we’ll be getting there,” Zekhain called back through the doorway.

  Tahr threw back his head and laughed, casting long, dark, braided hair from his obsidian face and revealing the sky-blue Warden tattoo that dominated his right eye. It was a sigil given those who had battled with the greatest dangers of the world and come through unscathed. Most Hunters simply took the sigil and patched it into their coat, but Tahr had been especially proud of his and opted to wear it on his face instead. Below that tattoo and scattered across his armguards were dozens of gold metal stars, each a sign of a contract fulfilled and a testament of prowess.

  Omer stepped out of the chamber. With one hand he rubbed his eyes and with the other he shielded them from the high sun. The Trial of Fire had taken nearly an hour, and for nearly an hour had been in complete darkness, save those occasional flashes of light. His limbs ached from kneeling and his brown hair was matted with sweat. He felt less a Hunter and more a wandering man who had stepped into water a little too deep for comfortable swimming. But that was likely part of the Trial. The Masters rarely made a decision without deep thought and even the location of their tests were chosen with a purpose. He was tired and hungry, but a Hunter in the wild would be afforded no rest.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll go easy on me?” Omer called out as he entered the courtyard.

  Tahr laughed once more. “A warrior does not forget, Omer,” Tahr said through a wide smile. “Fifteen years since that Calliweed in my socks. Spent the whole day running about like my toes were on fire. I put it aside while you were in training, but that ends today.” He gripped his sword and swung it over his head before bringing it to rest at guard. “You want to be En’shen, then you have to pay the toll, and today I’m the keeper.”

  “Alright, alright, put it back in the cage, Tahr, this is my Trial,” Zekhain said. Then he turned to Omer and waved him forward. “This Trial is simple, Omer: Make Tahr submit. Do that and you’re just a stone throw from being full-blooded En’shen. He will not be going easy, though. It’s going to hurt out there. A lot. If it comes to be too much, you can always bow out. He’ll not kill you, of course; would be a bit against our goals here, with getting new Hunters and all; but he’ll put the switch on. Have to do it, though. If you want to be out on the hunt by yourself, then you’re going to face greater than old Tahr there.” He frowned and looked out to the hulking giant in the middle of the yard. “Well, maybe as great as Tahr.” He shrugged. “At least as great, I’ll say. Maybe.”

  Omer groaned and rubbed the ache from his muscles. “I have trained with Tahr before,” he said. “I can hold my own.”

  “You have trained, yes, but you have not done battle with him. This will not be training,” Zekhain said, his leathery skin pursing into a frown. For a brief moment, Omer understood why Lethermen were rumored to be made out of stone. The Master could have been carved out of the mountain.

  Master Zekhain walked then to the wall outside the chamber. There were
two long wooden swords waiting on a rack. He took one and gave it to Omer. “Wood only,” he said. “Trials are hard, but I won’t have you dying.” Then he looked out to the courtyard. “Same for you, Tahr. Star knows you ought to be using one anyway while you’re home. Already have a bill for the last dummy you cut through.”

  Tahr let the huge greatsword fall from his shoulders. A clang rang across the walls of the mountainside. Zekhain threw another wooden sword out to the giant, which he caught with ease and began to spin about. “On your word, Omer,” Tahr called. “Honor of first strike always goes to the novice.”

  Omer did not quite believe that. Gaul claimed to have been bloodied before he was even aware the Trial had begun, though he had also claimed that the Trial took hours, which seemed unlikely. Omer would not be caught unaware. He lowered the wooden sword into a guard and began to edge his way out into the courtyard. Behind him the Masters filed out of the chamber, taking place in a line at the yard’s edge to watch and judge.

  “Remember, lad, you can always fall out if I rough you too much,” Tahr taunted. He rolled his shoulders, the muscles tensing in a terrible display, and stepped off the dais to enter the dirt yard. A brief thought hit Omer. He was a twig looking up at a full-grown tree, impossibly large and mighty. He wondered if Tahr would notice if Omer tackled him headlong.

  Omer grit his teeth. He stepped in carefully, taking stock of his foe as he looked for his first opening. Tahr was not the greatest swordsman in Shalim, that honor belonged to Celibrit, who was often away on a contract, being in high demand for his skill. Yet, few Hunters had more feats to their name than Tahr. Master Azod called him ‘A beast of a different kind’. What he lacked in finesse he exceeded in brute strength, and where others might practice Magic or Alchemy to enhance their strength during a contract, Tahr boasted unnatural stamina and resistance, a mutation, or so he claimed, of his own Testing. It was said that he felt no pain and that only magical blades could pierce his dark skin. Omer was skeptical, having seen the giant cut himself once with a common kitchen knife, but the rumor of his tolerance was not unfounded. He was not even sure Tahr would feel the wooden sword in his hands.